Chere's Revelation -- A Lust for Power
by TLOZLink5
Summary: Involves the events leading up to, during, and after Celes' imprisonment. YES, I'M ALIVE!!!! BTW, the King Roderick thing comes from a Margaret Rennie story. Ish not mine, so don't sue me, plz.


Author's Notes and Disclaimer:  
OK, this one is going to be a bit different. Like the stories about Kefka and General Leo, the story will mostly revolve around two major foci: the Empire's campaign on the Southern Continent and Kefka's character development. But also, Celes Chere will be the major character of focus, and the events leading to her imprisonment will be explained. Her battle in Maranda provides the opening for the rest of the story. Anyway, enjoy!  
  
And oh, yes. ::takes out a folded piece of paper with writing on it, unfolds it, and recites in monotone:: I do not own any of the characters in this story who are also characters in the game, Final Fantasy VI. Square owns them, and the benevolent pundits who own said corporation have provided my pathetic person with the privilege of writing fanfiction about their licensed characters. It is with great mercy and compassion that they do not sue me for using their characters in stories of my own creation--but then again, there's not much you can get from little ol' me, considering that I don't have money or anything of major value that they would want to take from me. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah...  
  
Ahh, bugger. Let's just get on with it.  
  
::ahem::  
  
Introduction: With the conquest of Tzen, the Empire of Vector has risen to its greatest heights. The ranks of the MagiTek Knight Corps have swollen to over ten thousand magically enhanced soldiers, whose powers form the very core of the Imperial war machine. Now ruler of a world power without peer, Emperor Gestahl has begun to exploit his newfound influence, bullying King Edgar Roni of Figaro, the only rival to the Empire's newfound strength, into a forced alliance. With news of an underground resistance movement, under the leadership of the exiled Tzenian statesman Banon Trimalchio, forming in the north and west, Gestahl has now made it his new mission to squelch all opposition to the glory of Vector. We now go to Maranda, the westernmost major city on the Southern Continent, where General Celes Chere winds down the battle for control of the region.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
"Covering fire!"  
  
"Medic!"  
  
"Take cover!"  
  
"Aggh!"  
  
"I got him! I got him!"  
  
"Regroup in the plaza and stay frosty. There's still plenty of the enemy left in this district."  
  
"Should I call in an airstrike, General?"  
  
"Negative. They're too spread out for a strike to be effective. Sweep the square and the perimeter and get snipers in the upper floors."  
  
The fighting roiled through streets and plazas, the thinning numbers of the Marandan Guard desperately trying to repel the advancing tide of Imperial troopers. Snipers fired from house windows on MagiTek divisions maneuvering through the streets, taking out one or two soldiers before being blasted into oblivion by an astute armor pilot. As units advanced or retreated, the dead, victims of the carnage on both sides, lay behind; their burial shrouds were gunsmoke and the settling dust of the battle, the only attendants to their impromptu funerals the flies and scavengers who had come to partake of their flesh.  
  
General Celes Chere, walking on foot, led the main column, MagiTek armor and all, through the narrow streets of Maranda. Blonde, tall, with the exquisite figure of a dancer, General Chere's eyes were the color of ice, and her gaze was just as chilling and cold. These eyes flitted around her, examining the surroundings as she advanced. Framed on either side by the high walls of closely-packed houses, some of the twisting thoroughfares of the city blocked almost all sunlight trying to seep through to the ground, the color of the sky above the only indicator of the time of day. Many of these streets never saw the sun at any time of the year, the perpetual shadows welcoming and concealing those who entered their protection for whatever purpose.  
  
Thus, they were perfect places for guerrilla fighters to hide.  
  
General Chere was well aware of this. Being the highest-ranking woman officer in the all too chauvinistic Imperial Army, she did not rise to her present position merely by her formidable good looks. Her tactical skills in battle rivaled those of General Leo Christophe, who led the Empire to victory at Albrook. And all in her command -- many of them grudgingly -- had to admit that she was something else.  
  
Her column had advanced through most of the length of the street, at the end of which a sunlit square, a ubiquitous occurrence in a city as old as this, offered more visibility and greater space to maneuver. Why MagiTek armor were sent to Maranda, she could barely fathom; the unwieldy monstrosities were not suitable for this type of battle. Arrival there could not come soon enough. If this patrol revealed no enemies, it was one less sector of town for her troops to secure.  
  
The sound of gunshots -- not coming from her troops -- catapulted that theory out the window.  
  
They melted out of the shadows of the streets and appeared in the high windows of the houses; roughly fivescore Marandan soldiers clad in black to camouflage their presence. The element of surprise, as is with any guerrilla force fighting urban warfare, was their foremost weapon; already thirty soldiers of her own battalion had been dropped.  
  
"We're sitting ducks unless we act fast!" she shouted to her troops. Not that they'd all hear her, but her officers did a good job of relaying the message. "Remain attentive and get a bead quickly! If you hesitate, they'll hit you first!"  
  
Her right hand flew to her Runic Blade; the left to her sidearm. Cocking the pistol, she quickly had one of the Marandan guerrillas, a sniper in an upper window, in her sights. Fired; and there was one less Marandan to worry about. The lifeless body slumped over the sill and toppled onto the street.  
  
Her ears, augmented by the MagiTek infusion she underwent years ago, detected the sound of stealthily approaching feet behind her. Her Runic Blade thrust in that direction, resulting in the very distinct sound and sensation of a very sharp blade cutting human flesh, followed immediately by a scream of agony as the unlucky recipient of the fatal wound slumped to the ground. She didn't need to look around to know that it was a second dead Marandan behind her.  
  
At the same time she was defending herself, her troops had gotten a hold of themselves and counterattacked. The battle hadn't lasted very long; if anything it was an act of desperation on the Marandans' behalf. Celes wiped her Runic Blade on her victim's pant leg, noticing the sword trembling violently as she replaced it in her scabbard. Watched as the battle---no, the slaughter--concluded. She didn't participate; just stood by as her troops...finished up. It took five minutes; in the end the last few Marandans, encircled by Imperial troopers, simply threw down their weapons. Already a communications tech was radioing the news of the skirmish from a vacant M-Tek Armor; responses from other companies confirmed that there was no other resistance in Maranda.  
  
The Empire had taken control of the last independent nation on the continent. A great victory. And yet Celes shook her head at the thought.  
  
A great victory, yes...but at what price had it come? So many dead, but for what? Was there a point to senseless slaughter, other than the ambiguous "fact" that glory came to the Empire due to this...  
  
"General Chere?"  
  
Celes snapped out of her reverie; for the first time she noticed and acknowledged the presence of the officer standing right in front of her. Immediately she composed herself in the way an officer should in treating the lower ranks, and in an inquiring voice asked, "You wanted something, Captain?"  
  
Apologies were not required; to ask forgiveness of a man beneath her rank would imply bad sense of leadership. She was a general; she could be picking her nose in front of this man and he wouldn't be in a position to question her hygiene. The captain answered, "Ma'am, intelligence indicates that we routed the last pocket of resistance in the city. We are in complete control of Maranda."  
  
"Damage?" "The main market district is practically in ruins; that was where most of the insurgents held out. Outlying residential areas managed to escape much destruction, but it will take some time to repair infrastructure. As per your command, most of the city's factories have likewise been fired."  
  
"Thank you, captain. Dismissed."  
  
The officer saluted, turned heel. As he walked away, Celes sighed, and began to contemplate the results of the invasion. The report was merely a brief overview of the extent of damage, but she understood the consequences of the attack. Commerce and industry in Maranda had ground to a halt, and would not recover for a long time. Fighting a losing war had destroyed the city's economy. Too much production gone into weapons, mandatory rationing, drafts; while the Marandans fought a total war for their survival, the Empire didn't even have to hold a draft lottery. Every effort for naught; all the Marandans' progress, their opulence and trade, practically destroyed in this single battle. Just because Maranda had granted amnesty to some Returners? What could a group of Albrookese and Tzenian expatriates, numbering in the low hundreds, possibly do to harm the Empire? The Emperor's agenda here was counterproductive; if anything, this campaign would help spawn even more of those terrorists and their sympathizers.  
  
She shook her head. Leave the politics to the politicians. She was battle-weary, and what taxes the body can just as well take its toll on the mind. Plus, she had to return to Vector, give the report to Emperor Gestahl. After the commendations, the victory rallies, yet another Legion of Honor medal, she would ask the Emperor for a leave of absence. She thought that it was time for a long-deserved break from fighting. Maybe she would even retire. Gods knew that she never wanted to head a campaign like this ever again.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
--Vector, a week later--  
  
"I beg your pardon, Liege?"  
  
"There seems to be incredulity in your voice, General Chere. You find fault in my plans in some way, I gather?"  
  
General Chere stood on the summit of the epicenter of Vector, the Imperial capital. Now visible from Albrook three hundred miles away, the Imperial Palace had grown into a vast complex: a barracks, a fortress, a royal residence, a military academy--all massed into a giant ziggurat thrusting twelve hundred feet into the air from the highest mesa of the city. The nearby spires of the financial district, albeit of noteworthy height themselves, seemed delicate and eggshell-fragile in comparison to this behemoth, muscled aside by the brutalist monument to Imperial authority.  
  
Through the plate-glass windows of the Emperor's private observation deck, Celes noticed the twinkling lights of the metallic metropolis stretching out toward the horizon, while behind her she could almost feel the heat from the myriad furnaces and smelters of the northern factory district. But her eyes were mainly focused on the aged royal, dressed in black and red silk, who stood in front of her as he nonchalantly awaited her reply. Emperor Gestahl was a small man, yet his aura of confidence and regality made him seem to tower above Celes. (It helped, for that matter, that he also wore platform-heeled shoes.) His hair, mustache and stringy, unkempt beard had been completely gray for as long as Celes could remember, prematurely so ever since he began his mad dash to acquire MagiTek power before the maiden general had been born. His body appeared decrepit and bony, yet he walked quickly and without a stoop, never needed a cane, and was a powerful magic-user, thanks to various infusions with the Espers which were gradually being drained of their powers within the Research Facility to the east. His brown eyes, gleaming with greed and ambition, fixated on Celes as he waited--seemingly a bit too long, as he looked impatient--for her reply.  
  
"As I was saying, General Chere," he pressed, "if you find any faults with my proposal, best to address them now."  
  
"Sorry, my Liege," Celes had gathered her thoughts and pressed forward with her doubts. "You wish for me to invade the Kingdom of Figaro, and then establish a forward base for a strike on Doma, correct?"  
  
Gestahl's mustache twitched, just a little, as he replied. "That is correct, Celes. General Palazzo has already mobilized to the west of South Figaro..."  
  
Palazzo. A sour taste formed in Celes' mouth whenever she heard the name of that evil man. Kefka's pillaging sortie in Tzen was well-known to the rest of the world: the royal family slaughtered, the only surviving daughter personally ravaged before being made his personal concubine. The mere thought of some of the other details was too gruesome to entertain. When the rulers of Figaro and Doma pressed for a war crimes tribunal to prosecute the madman, Gestahl used his influence in the Council of Jidoor to PARDON Kefka of any "alleged" wrongdoings. The minor city-states, all under Gestahl's sphere of influence or carved into informal protectorates, bloc-voted to annul all charges brought against Kefka. The result was an international outrage, and the membership and activity of the Returners, then a very small faction, began to rise dramatically following the Council's adjournment.  
  
Gestahl was still speaking while Celes recalled Kefka's atrocities, and she picked up the last of the briefing when she snapped out of her reverie: "...will link up with General Palazzo's units and establish a garrison in South Figaro while he deals with the Returners in the Sabil Mountains and then proceeds to Doma to aid General Christope. He will take over for Leo when he arrives there."  
  
Celes nodded. Reluctantly. "Understood, Majesty. By your leave..."  
  
Gestahl smiled. "You depart tomorrow. But for now, we have a rally to attend." With that, he turned his back to Celes and opened the large double doors which led out of the observatory. The resounding cheers of thousands of Imperial troops greeted Celes' ears as she stepped out into the night to stand by the Emperor's side...she knew well enough that, given Kefka's reputation in his other campaigns, he would do something equally dastardly--or worse--to the people of Doma. Why the Emperor too naive to not see it coming, she did not know. Or, she deduced, the thought chilling her--maybe he knew EXACTLY what was going to happen...?  
  
* * * * * * * *  
--South Figaro, five days later--  
  
The battle here, or lack thereof, was nothing like Maranda. South Figaro had fallen easily, with very little struggle, thanks to the information given from an informant within the city. This turncoat's mansion was converted into the Imperial command center, much to the chagrin of the man and his family: the former because he regretted doing it for money he was not in need of; and the latter because they had to quarter many of the troopers themselves. A mandatory curfew had been imposed upon the entire city: aside from Imperials on patrol, the only people allowed outdoors were the merchants whose trade bustled thanks to the various needs of said troops; and the occasional prostitute to fulfill the other various desires that the merchants couldn't provide for.  
  
Celes again found herself walking through a near-dead city. Streets that were normally bustling with people were quiet enough for the chirps of crickets to be audible. It was dusk; the imposing row houses on either side of the silent street, despite the fact that they were occupied due to the curfew, stood in darkness thanks to blackout curtains. Only the soft light of the street lamps lit the street, standing in succession and solitude like votive candles illuminating the apse of a Gothic cathedral. At the end of this corridor stood, within a large plaza, South Figaro's city hall, the focal point of every boulevard that branched out through the gridiron pattern of the metropolis. As she strained her eyes to catch a glimpse of that destination, Celes noticed, amid the lights of that plaza, a large crowd gathered in front of the looming visage of the hall. Her ears detected incoherent shouting coming from this crowd; running now, as she drew closer she saw a green-and-brown mass of people--the standard colors of the imperial uniform--and the now-audible shouts of "Returner scum!" and the like were now accompanied by a sick cracking sound--registering in Celes' mind as the sound of whips striking bare flesh.  
  
Her own troops, she deduced with horror, were publicly flaggellating alleged Returners.  
  
She ran into the plaza, shoving her way through the mass of soldiers, towards the open expanse in the center of the ring they formed around their prisoners. "What the hell is the meaning of this?!?" she demanded of the crowd, gray-blue eyes scanning the victims. A pitiful sight they were; roughly thirty men and women, from teenage years to old age, each stripped and lashed to a post--none of them had been spared the brutality of the whip. The pinkish travertine marble of the plaza had been stained red with their blood.  
  
So many people brutalized...Celes closed her eyes, focusing on each wound and summoning forth her own strength to gird against it. She whispered one of the simplest of healing charms, spread her arms wide to encompass the scourged victims, and shouted "Cure!" Instantly a soothing aura surrounded her and the wounded Returners; as they healed she braced for the backlash. For contrary to popular belief, pain healed through magical means does not simply disappear; rather, it is displaced and equalized and transferred to those nearby in more bearable chunks. While no actual loss of strength or health results from this side effect, it feels quite unpleasant for a brief period. Celes, the nearest to the wounded, was the first to feel the effects; intense pain surged briefly through her veins before being displaced among the crowd and beyond.  
  
Her composure regained, the fire of fury raging in her icy stare, Celes Chere repeated her question to the gathered soldiers: "I ask you again: what is the meaning of this offense? I gave strict orders that no one in South Figaro was to be harmed if there was an unconditional surrender!"  
  
A greensuit, or officer, stepped forward. His build was stocky, and his hazel eyes stared with grudging compliance at General Chere. "We had orders from another general, Ma'am," he replied. "Any resistance fighters we encountered were to be punished severely as to serve a message to the rest of the Returners."  
  
"My orders, Lieutenant," Celes snapped, anger slightly accenting each of her words as she spoke, "were to ensure that the lives and property of every citizen were safe. I was put in charge of this operation, and I will assure you that this intolerable offense will not go unpunished. I want these prisoners released; we can't keep waltzing around on these campaigns, committing atrocities against our enemies whenever we so please!"  
Her mouth doing more thinking than her mind, Celes simply let her rage over the present circumstances apply to her apprehensions about the Empire's other sorties. "Do you ever wonder exactly why the Empire is hated so much the world over, Lieutenant?" she inquired. "Does what happened in Tzen ever come to mind with you? The assassination of King Roderick of Figaro ten years back? Or how about Doma, for Bahamut's sake?!? Do you have ANY concerns at all, considering his past record, of what Kefka might have in store for Doma? Or are you too busy following orders? If you had any sense--"  
  
Laughter, high, whooping and resounding, sounded out behind her. Her blood running cold and nervous tingling spreading all over her body, Celes turned around to a sight she would always dread. Standing in all his resplendent garishness, from the ribbons and bells of his boots to the pink Chocobo plume accenting his wild hair, Kefka Palazzo, standing only a few feet away, eyed Celes with a mixture of contempt, amusement and insanity as he giggled. Really, General Chere, he miffed, "We wouldn't want lose our temper over such matters as this! You know that your outlandish remarks have 'treason' written all over them, don't you?"  
  
Regaining her composure, Celes steeled her voice to become neutral as she replied. "I only speak the truth of these matters, Kefka. It is no lie, nor is it treason, to present factual information, no matter if it puts the Empire's reputation into jeopardy or not. Emperor Gestahl would say it himself if--"  
  
"Oh-ho, Celes!" Kefka retorted, breaking her off in mid-sentence. "The Emperor gave me strict orders to deal with these losers here if we came across them. He also told me to put under arrest any who protested these actions. Considering," he continued, nonchalantly gesturing towards her, "that you have done so, and even given treatment to these Returner scum, this last clause of his demands certainly applies to you, doesn't it?" He snapped his fingers once, summoning forth two bodyguards. Turning to each of them, he said, "You know what to do with this treacherous wench."  
  
* * * * * * * *  
--Imperial HQ basement--  
  
Pain wracked every part of her body as the two soldiers hammered into her over and over. Stripped of her armor, her Runic Blade, and her title, Celes Chere hung on the wall by chains cuffed to her wrists, her immaculate cornsilk hair grime-encrusted and wild, her icy stare thawing thanks to the tears of pain, warm and silent, which coursed down her sooty face. She tried to face her captors, but each blow to her stomach caused her to double up in even more agony.  
  
Injury is bad enough in a situation such as hers; yet insult can be even worse when paired with pain. The troopers didn't just attack her mercilessly, they mocked her and laughed at her predicament.  
  
"That's what we do to traitors like you, bitch," sneered one, apparently the superior of the two, slapping her across the face with a gauntlet-clad hand. It stung like crazy, yet she didn't dare cry out. An equally hard slap on the other cheek likewise did not elicit a vocal reaction. "Looks like the great Chere has finally fallen, eh?" The simpleton guffawed at his little cliche, as his comrade, seated on a chair next to him, grinned in agreement.  
"I sure would say so, sir," the second idiot replied. "I'd hate to be in her shoes tomorrow, though. Short trial and an execution, they say." He stood up and walked towards her, putting a hand under her chin and lifting her face up into his line of vision. He leaned in, uncomfortably close, to examine Celes more thoroughly. "Pretty little thing, too. Hate to see a head like that get chopped off, but them's the rules, I guess." He drew back as he felt the warm smattering of spittle on his left cheek; Celes, apparently unamused, had spat on him. He smacked her in retaliation, the force of the blow turning her face in the direction of the slap. "Cheap slut," he muttered as he walked back to his chair, trying to get the saliva off.  
  
Celes brought her head up, staring at her two captors eye-to-eye. "How can you dare to serve those cowards?" she asked, her voice steady despite the pains of her abuse. "I can't understand how you have any sense of honor when you know what Gestahl's plans are."  
  
"Keep quiet, you spiteful bitch!" the jailor warned, a wavering hint of anger and denial in his voice. He obviously felt the same apprehension that she had for a long time. Allowing a small smile to play across her face, she continued. "Isn't it true," she asked, "that Kefka's planning to poison the people of Doma, to the east? Which goes back to my first question, I would guess. Again, why would you bring yourself through all this--"  
  
"I said," the senior trooper interrupted calmly, stepping towards her, "shut UP!" This last word was punctuated by a particularly vicious punch to Celes' gut, forcing her to double over in pain and spots to dance before her eyes. The sweet, blissful enticement of unconsciousness offered to take her up in its embrace, and she gratefully accepted, allowing the darkness to engulf her as she fell forward, her plunge broken midway by her chains.  
  
Hearing is always the last sense to go in cases of impending unconsciousness or death, so Celes was able to pick up a few last words from her guards before she drifted off. "I gotta...patrol...eye...her...I'm back."  
"Don't...worry...a thing, Sir!...go...sleep...at all!"  
  
She remained in a state of unawareness and dreamless slumber, before she felt herself falling forward and being caught by a pair of strong arms. As she regained consciousness, she felt her strength returning as a bitter liquid was forced through her lips--Tonic, her mind registered--and her feet again finding purchase on a solid floor. As she opened her eyes, she first saw her vigilant guard asleep on his chair; her vision shifted to a figure in merchant's garb standing in front of her, about half a head shorter than she.  
  
'Interesting, to say the least,' she thought. 'I figured my executioner would be a bit less comical.' But she decided to play along. "Tell me, kind sir," she asked, "what might you hope to peddle in this dungeon?"  
"What?" the stranger asked, seemingly for the first time noticing his choice of apparel. "Oops, forgot about this disguise." With a single, deft movement, the heavy traveler's cloak was removed and cast to one side, revealing a brown-eyed, handsome young man whose brown hair was held back from his forehead with a blue bandanna. He wore a black vest over a white T-shirt, immaculately tucked into a pair of form-fitting leather pants held up with a black belt. He was thin, yet visible bulges in his upper body, under his clothes, revealed that he was tautly muscular. He offered a hand, which she obligingly took in greeting. "Locke Cole, treasure hunter," the man introduced himself. "I'm with the Returners."  
  
"Returners, eh?" Celes instinctively asked with incredulity. But then she remembered the circumstances surrounding her situation, and shook off that instinct. "Sorry. Force of habit. Celes Chere, MagiTek Knight, er...FORMER Imperial General. Now simply a common traitor. Something we have in common, I deduce."  
  
"I think what we also have in common is that we're both in a bit of a jam. I came to South Figaro to sabotage the Empire's progress in the occupation, but now I need to get the hell out of here," Locke replied. He offered his hand to her. "We're in the basement of the Imperial headquarters. There's a secret passage that leads out of town. Why not come with me?"  
  
A chance of freedom! She could get out of this place alive! But then again...where would she go? She shook her head. "Thanks, but no thanks. I'm hurt way too badly to be of any help to you. I'd probably be a burden anyway." She was able to recover very quickly after that beating, and that Tonic certainly helped. But she didn't want to get this Locke character hurt. To emphasize her she stood up and faked a limp as best as she could. "And if they find us...how will you protect me? No, I think I'd be better off here."  
  
Locke had stood against the wall the whole time of her excuse, arms akimbo and a skeptical look on his face. "Drop the act, Celes," he said playfully. "You're one of the toughest Imperial soldiers there is, and you can't go down that easily at the hands of a couple of bums like him." He jerked a thumb at the inept, still-sleeping guard. "And the Returners are a large group. King Edgar of Figaro is one of them, and he'll grant you amnesty and protection. But right now, we need to get to Narshe. Once Kefka's through with Doma, he's going to attack Narshe to acquire the Esper they unearthed in their mines; so I need to be there to help fight them off. You have nothing left for you here, anyway. You have a chance to save yourself, and we can use a fighter like you on our side."  
  
Celes knew that she had been had. She gave up the charade and stood upright. In a pile next to the guard was her equipment. She slipped the white leather armor back on and hefted her Runic Blade to her side, then turned to Locke and nodded toward the guard. "That soldier has a key on him," she told him...  
  
* * * * * * * *  
--Figaro Cave, three hours later--  
  
Locke Cole and Celes Chere had, at this point, navigated their way through the passages beneath South Figaro--opened by using said key to wind an old clock--and hiked west to Figaro Cave, the main point of access between the central desert province where Figaro Castle stood and South Figaro's fertile coastal plain. As Locke led her through the winding tunnel, Celes felt inclined to ask her rescuer questions about himself.  
  
"So why, necessarily," she inquired, as they entered the cavern, "did you decide to rescue me? I'm the enemy, for Alexander's sake; I'm the heartless, icy whore who torched Maranda. Why help me?"  
  
"I'm...not really sure, exactly," Locke replied, thrusting a small lantern out in front of him as he traced his way through the cave. "There was once a time when I trusted the Empire as well, but several things happened that changed my allegiance. Someone...very dear to me was jailed by the Imperials years back, and I've hated them ever since." Celes was certain that he had told several people this story; it just flowed out of him too naturally. "I joined the Returners when I figured that the Empire was simply rotten.  
"But," he continued, "my obligation to help you stems from an occurance from about a year ago. My fiancee in Kohlingen died in an Imperial attack. I was away on...business, doing some--"  
  
"Thievery?" Celes asked innocently.  
  
Locke blushed. "Treasure hunting," he replied, obviously a bit offended. Yet he continued, "so I was unable to help her. She was killed at the hands of my enemy, just as...you were about to be."  
  
"So, somewhere in your mind, you thought you were saving HER, didn't you?" Celes asked. "Her death made you feel worthless, and you want to reassure yourself that you can make a difference by helping others in similar situations?"  
  
"Something like that, I guess," Locke replied. "Hmmm...it looks like we're almost at the exit. From there, we just need to--"  
  
A giant rumbling sound pierced both their ears, just as they got near the exit. A large section of the rock wall to their left had begun to rise. "Something's coming outta the wall!" Celes shouted, drawing her Runic Blade. That "something," its metal surface glinting in the dim light, was some sort of automated MagiTek Armor suited for subterannean fighting. Drills and TekLaser batteries poked out of its elongated, armored body, which moved around on treads. A humming sound resounded from within, indicating it was ready for an attack.  
  
"TunnelArmor," Celes identified, holding her sword aloft. "You attack it. I'll draw its magic so it can't hurt us."  
"Come again?" Locke asked, unsheathing a steel lancet. "I said," Celes repeated, "I can absorb its magic attacks with my sword. It acts as a lightning rod for magic."  
  
"I'll take your word for it," Locke muttered, jumping forward. He leaped on top of the infernal machine, using his Air Lancet to shear off its drill components. As he withdrew from his attack, he noticed a panel in the TunnelArmor open and large quantities of unknown matter being collected into a dishlike receptacle. A beam shot out, coalescing into a Bolt attack seemingly aimed directly at Locke. As Locke's arms instinctively shot up in a vain attempt to protect himself, he noticed that the Bolt changed course, aiming towards Celes and away from him! The Bolt didn't even strike Celes; rather, it was actually drawn into the glowing runes visible all over Celes' blade. The Runic Blade shuddered as it took in the huge amount of energy, the vibrations moving down Celes' body as she kept the blade completely steady. As she kept control over the Runic absorption, a blue aura began to radiate directly from her body, thousands of tiny ice crystals materializing within this aura as Celes built up power drawn from the TunnelArmor's attack.  
  
At the last second, she aimed both palms at the TunnelArmor, shouting in a disembodied voice, "Blizzara!" as her magical attack flew outward from her hands. The myriad crystals were drawn toward the TunnelArmor, eventually coalescing in a giant block of ice which melted into water as quickly as it had materialized. The liquid apparently had a short-circuiting effect on the MagiTek machine, as it began to tremble fiercely as sparks and electrical currents coursed the length of its body. It seemed ready to explode any minute, as both Locke and Celes certainly knew. Point mutually taken, the combatants ran like bats out of hell from Figaro Cave as the TunnelArmor began to break down.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
--Elder's Home, Narshe, the next day--  
  
"...and that's what happened. All of it."  
  
Celes and Locke had just finished their regalia for the other Returners assembled with the Narshe Elder. Now numbering nine, including Banon Trimalchio, the leader of the guerilla group; and Arvis Rouquier, its main tactician in the northern campaign against the Empire, the companions had taken turns introducing themselves and explaining how they got involved with the group. Excluding Locke and Celes, there was also Terra Branford, the shy green-haired girl who was a natural-born magic-user and had been enslaved by the Empire as a biological weapon. Her green eyes radiated sadness as she recounted how the Slave Crown had robbed her of independent thought; how she had been exploited by the Empire to retreive the frozen Esper discovered in Narshe's mines; how the army of Narshe tried to track her down and execute her afer Arvis tried to help her; how Locke rescued her from the Narshe militia; and the long story of how she got involved with the Returners.  
  
There was Edgar Roni Rigaro, the young king of Figaro who helped Locke bring Terra to Banon; and his twin brother Sabin Rene, a martial artist who had fled the kingdom upon their father's death out of disgust with the political corruption surrounding Roderick's passing. There was Cyan Garamonde, retainer to the King of Doma, one of the very few survivors of Kefka Palazzo's atrocious poisoning of Doma Castle's water supply. Tears welled in the Samurai's eyes as he recalled holding the dead bodies of his poisoned son and wife; those same eyes raged with hatred as he recognized Celes as the General who pillaged Maranda. Locke forced himself between the two before Cyan made an attempt to attack, for Doma and Maranda had been close allies and Cyan had allowed his prejudice of Imperials to overtake his judgment. Edgar, ever the pacifist, reminded Cyan that although the Empire was evil, not all Imperials should be associated with its grievances.  
  
And finally, there was Gau, the wild boy of the Veldt. Cyan and Sabin had encountered this strange fellow as they fled the Empire's troops following the fall of Doma. (Sabin had helped Cyan fight off Imperial troops when the latter man, seeking revenge, attacked the Doman seige camp alone.) A green-haired nomad cloaked in the hides of various Veldt residents, Gau helped the two locate a breathing helmet which would allow them to travel underwater via the Serpent Trench from Mobliz to Nikeah, where they caught a ferry to South Figaro and made their way to Narshe.  
  
As Celes wrapped up, a Narshe soldier burst into the Elder's house, eyes wide with fright and panting heavily. "Forgive my intrusion elder," she gasped, making an effort to stand upright as she saluted, "But a large Imperial force is heading toward Narshe. I'm afraid that we might be outnumbered."  
  
A short burst of Pandemonium ensued; Cyan, his trust in Celes not yet cemented, accused her of leading the Empire to Narshe, yet Locke and Edgar assured him it wasn't the case. After Sabin was forced to knock some heads together to get people to cooperate, the seven, accompanied by Banon, made their way into the hills where the Esper had been stored for safekeeping. Celes made it a point to walk along next to Cyan, hoping to smooth out the wrinkles in their relationship caused by the first impression.  
  
"Cyan..." the man in question stopped in his tracks, turning to Celes with a cold look on his face. "Far be it from me to refuse the bidding of any lady, ye Imperial harlot. What say you; what sort of knavish mockery dost thou plan to commit?"  
  
She shook her head. "None at all, Sir Garamonde. I just want you to hear me out, is all."  
  
"Be quick."  
  
"I had no control over what happened in Maranda, I'll tell you that," she replied. "I didn't have any say over the order; had I not done what I did, I would have been executed for treason, and Kefka would have gone in and done something even worse. Believe me, I regret it greatly. Besides which, the reason I got thrown in jail was because I protested Kefka's plans for Doma; I would have stopped him had I had the opportunity...I'm just sorry. There was so much I could have done to stop him, again and again...I never did anything."  
  
Cyan was moved by Celes' explanation, yet he could not bring himself to forgive her yet. "'tis nary a thing thou canst do about it now, lass," he said, finally. "We both have more critical matters to attend to. Yet I must warn thee," he continued, extending a hand, "that I do not trust thee yet. Don't ye be thinking otherwise, lest I inform you of the contrary."  
  
"Look with your own eyes first, Cyan. Then decide if you do."  
  
They shook.  
  
FINIS 


End file.
